Of Life and Music
by AnneMary
Summary: A short story of Rodney's reaction to his piano teacher's comment. Somewhat more dramatic than most such stories, and largely based on my life and feelings towards music at the time of writing. It was originally a one-shot, but I have since added a second part about the first time he played again. Apologies for the excessively long author's notes.
1. Of Life and Music

**Disclaimer: Stargate Atlantis and Rodney McKay belong to MGM Television and Acme Shark (according to Wikipedia). **_**Moonlight Sonata**_**, aka **_**Sonata Quasi Una Fantasia**_**, aka **_**Sonata in C# Minor**_**, belongs to Ludwig van Beethoven. **_**Das Wohltemperiert Klavier**_**, aka **_**The Well-Tempered Keyboard**_**, belongs to Johann Sebastian Bach. **_**Canon in D Major**_** belongs to Johann Pachelbel.**

**Notes: A short story of Rodney's reaction to his piano teacher's comment. Somewhat more dramatic than most such stories, and largely based on my life and feelings towards music at the moment. **

**Obviously I've made various assumptions about Rodney's family life. I'm convinced that he has Asperger's Syndrome himself, so having younger siblings with autism isn't too much of a stretch. And I tend to depict him as having a French-speaking mother, partly because that's just random, and partly because he's Canadian. And it's fun to write characters with an interesting linguistic background.**

**If you are dealing with depression or feelings of despair, this probably isn't the best story for you to be reading.**

"You're a technical player, Meredith. You've got no sense of the art!"

Twelve-year-old Meredith McKay stared at his piano teacher in shock for several seconds, before reality set in, and he snapped his head away, grabbing his books and hurrying out of the house. He knew it was rude, but he had to do it. He couldn't face staying there any longer.

Clutching his books to his chest like a child might hold a teddy bear, Meredith kept his head down, fighting tears as his feet led him home. It was only a short walk, and he got there soon enough.

"Tu as rentré tôt, Meredith," his mother observed as he came in, looking up from where she was doing therapy with Digby.

Meredith stormed past her, down the corridor to the bedrooms, slamming doors behind him. "Tais-toi!" he yelled out. "Et te perdres!"

As he left, he could hear Jeannie commenting drolly, "He's so weird."

Finally in his bedroom, Meredith went straight to his bed, curling up on the covers. His chest hurt. He didn't think that was normal. A lump built in his throat and his eyes stung, but he didn't want to cry. He couldn't. Everyone knew boys didn't cry, even if they had a sissy girl's name like Meredith. He never cried, not even that time he'd had to wear his underpants on his head at lunch-time.

It wasn't fair.

He'd spent his entire life – well, eight years anyway, which for a twelve-year-old was tantamount to his entire life – trying to become a good musician. It was his one dream; to become a concert pianist. He had loved the music, the way it all worked together and came out sounding beautiful. It resonated within him, even as a child, a way to express himself the way nothing else could. He spent hours practicing each day, trying to get all the notes to come together _just right_. He lived for that one moment, when the music would come from his fingers and sound perfect. It never did, though.

Frustrated, and angry with himself and with the music, he grabbed the books he had carried home, opened them, and ripped out the pages. He bunched them in his hands, ripped them to shreds. Goodbye, Moonlight Sonata. Farewell, Well-Tempered Keyboard. And may they never meet again.

He envied the natural musicians, the ones who could sit down at a piano and play perfectly, even if they'd never had lessons or practiced a day in their life. The ones to whom it came naturally, the notes just falling into place. The good musicians.

He wasn't one of them. Obviously. He hated them, with a passion. Show-offs. He could practice and practice and practice, but he would never attain that ultimate goal – perfection in music. He'd even stopped enjoying music. He didn't think he'd really, properly enjoying playing the piano in almost two years. But he still practiced, because he thought that every time he did, he was slightly closer to that goal. Maybe one day he'd be good.

Maybe if he were good enough, if he played well enough, people would notice him. Notice him in a good way. Maybe they would give him praise, give him attention. Buy him a metronome. Meredith thought that might be why he was so terrible at playing. When he was six, his teacher had said that he needed a metronome to practice with. But they hadn't had enough money, and he had gone metronome-less.

"Next year," his parents had said, "We'll buy you a metronome next year." But he had heard them talking after he had left the room. "What sort of boy wants a metronome?" his father had asked. "There's no point in it. Music is worthless."

Of course he'd think that; Meredith's father was tone-deaf.

Meredith didn't have a perfect ear; far from it, actually. But he practiced and practiced, trying to hear the notes, learn them, work out what they were from the sound. He did jobs for the neighbours and saved up money. Barely enough for a piece of music, let alone a metronome.

He remembered going into the music shop, and standing there, staring at the metronome. It seemed perfect, a pyramid of shining, gleaming wood; numbers and words up the front and an arm which ticked in perfect time. It stood there, behind the glass, so perfect… And so inaccessible.

When he was eight, he'd bought a copy of Pachelbel's Canon in D. Now _there_ was perfection. Just a simple chord progression, a simple tune, repeated over and over, made more intricate each time. Genius, in notes. Perfect rhythm, perfect time, simple and predictable and ordered. He'd played it so many times he could do it in his sleep.

A metronome would have been useful.

"Stupid boy," Donald McKay had often said of his oldest son. "Can't do anything useful. He's always at that blasted piano, making noise."

There wasn't enough money for lessons or books or music. His current teacher had only taken him in out of charity. All money in the McKay household went to providing therapy for his brother. Digby had autism, and there was never enough money for therapy, and Maman often fretted about that. Meredith had, too.

Now he didn't care, he decided. He'd had enough of kind, caring, considerate Meredith. Meredith, who faded into the background for the benefit of his parents or siblings. Meredith, who bit his tongue to keep from saying something which might upset the emotionally needy people around him. Meredith, who put everyone before himself and never spoke his own mind. Meredith, who always accepted what life threw at him without a complaint.

Well, no more. It was time he accepted that he would never be even a mediocre pianist, and stopped trying to be someone he wasn't. He was sick of keeping his thoughts inside and never voicing his feelings and opinions, sick of sitting through complaints from his parents and siblings as they told him their troubles. Sick of barely letting his own emotional state be known, because he knew it would upset his very emotional mother. Sick of bottling in his own feelings and never telling anyone that he was overwhelmed and despairing. Sick of feeling overwhelmingly guilty if he accidentally said or did something that someone else didn't like.

From now on, there would be a new Meredith. No, not Meredith. Meredith was a sissy, with a sissy's name. A girl, who was nice and gave of himself. He didn't want to be called Meredith anymore. Maybe his middle name would be better. Rodney. It was tougher, more masculine, less nice. And going by his middle name would upset his parents. Maybe Meredith would feel guilty about that, but Rodney wouldn't. Never.

Rodney would be different. Rodney would be a new person. Rodney wouldn't be afraid of telling people that they were stupid or incompetent or if they were annoying him. Rodney would put himself first, and he certainly wouldn't bury himself so deep that sometimes he forgot that he actually existed under all the problems and needs of his family. And Rodney wouldn't play the piano.

Maybe Rodney would be into sciences instead. Sciences were nice, Meredith reflected. Science and maths used cold, hard facts. One question, one answer, no need to factor in emotional variables and cater to other people's whims. Sciences were nice and comforting, and had probably already begun filling the gap in his life where the joy of music had once been. Sciences made sense, and could bring him the recognition that music never could.

Yes, Meredith decided. Rodney was definitely a change for the better.

**Translation Note: "Tu as renter tôt." = "You've returned early."; "Tais-toi!" = "Shut up!"; "Te perdres!" = "Get lost!"**

**Additional Note: A small modification was made 12.03.13, when it came to my attention that Rodney was 12 when he stopped playing piano, not 14.**


	2. Of A Return to Music

**Disclaimer: Stargate Atlantis and Rodney McKay belong to MGM Television and Acme Shark. **

_**Canon in D Major**_** belongs to Johann Pachelbel. **_**Air and Variations on A Theme**_**, called **_**The Harmonious Blacksmith**_** belongs to Georg Frederick Handel.**_** The Pathétique Sonata, Moonlight Sonata**_**, and **_**Rage Over the Lost Penny**_** belong to Ludwig van Beethoven. **

_**Chì Mi Na Mor-Bheanna **_**was written by John Cameron of Ballachulish in 1856 and set to a folk tune, and was played at the funerals of King George VI and J F Kennedy. It's my favourite Gaelic song – after, of course, **_**Gu 'm a Slàn Do Na Fearaibh**_**, which is about Australia. **_**O Teannaibh Dlùth 'is Togaibh Fonn**_** is a Cape Breton song about the Highland Clearances and making a new life in Nova Scotia. I can't find out who wrote it, but I'd better disclaim it anyway. **

**Notes: **

**The first chapter was meant to be a one-shot. I'm not sure why I wrote this, but obviously I didn't think it was very good at the time as it's been sitting on my computer for the past five months. The ending seems a little abrupt, so do let me know if it doesn't work.**

**Pretty much everything I know about Canada comes from my first Gaelic textbook (despite having spent six hours in Toronto and about thirty in Vancouver), so that's why Rodney's from Nova Scotia.**

**They really did send a guitar up to the International Space Station. There are more instruments now, though. Google "Space Station Music".**

**I'm not sure whether Sheppard really does play the guitar, but I've read a number of fics where he does. It wasn't my idea; I'm not sure to whom it belongs.**

Rodney's first time playing the piano after swearing never to touch the instrument again proved somewhat anticlimactic. There were no explosions – the universe didn't stop. Nothing even attacked the city.

The music had never left him, although he had tried so hard to run from it, to embrace science. The problem was, he kept seeing music in science. He tried to ignore it, but it was still there. The perfect harmony, electrons and protons and neutrons working together like tones and dynamics, chords and scales and patterns, to create the most amazing things. Pachelbel's Canon in Atoms.

Sometimes, he found the music coming to him when he least wanted it, at awkward times, and sometimes without realising it. When he was bored, his fingers tapped out _The Harmonious Blacksmith_ or _The Pathétique Sonata_ on the table or console or his leg. When he was nervous, his fingers ran scales over any available surface. When he was tired, _Moonlight Sonata_ or _Canon_ would come out of his fidgeting fingers. When he was excited, _The Rage Over The Lost Penny_ would play itself out on his thighs. Sometimes he found himself humming tunes he had thought he'd forgotten, anything from classical music to _Chì Mi Na Mor-Bheanna _and_ O Teannaibh Dlùth_.

Various other members of the expedition played instruments. Some were surprisingly good, while others were not so much. Zelenka sang in Czech when he was working, but he didn't have a very good ear, so that was quite painful. Sometimes Rodney found himself fighting the urge to correct people on various musical matters, reminding himself that he didn't like music, that he wasn't a musician, he was a scientist.

Sometimes music jumped out at him, screaming at him to pay attention. Most of the time he ignored it. Once he actually paid attention, which turned into a disaster. Yes, they found Janus' lair. But then they were captured by Asgard – of all people! – and forced to activate a device which basically blew up Stargates. A bad day all round, really. He swore off music yet again after that.

He even found himself talking about music and his history with the piano once, although admittedly to an unconscious Ronon, who probably wouldn't have understood any of it anyway.

And then an upright piano was sent to them by someone on Earth. Probably the IOA or someone – it happened around the same time as they sent a guitar up to the International Space Station. It sat in the rec room, and it was played by various people who probably didn't know what they were doing. It was quite painful most of the time, actually, especially as it got progressively out of tune.

And then Jeannie came for a visit. They'd been back to Earth (and finally got the blasted piano tuned!), and she'd agreed to come with them for the journey back to the Pegasus galaxy. For reasons Rodney was unable to fathom, they actually trusted her scientific judgement over his. And of course, as soon as Jeannie saw the piano, she began bothering him to play it. And as soon as various other members of the expedition – namely Sheppard and Carson and Jennifer – got wind of that, they joined in.

None of them could seem to understand why he wouldn't play. They just didn't seem to get that music was painful to him. Sheppard tried to convince him that he understood, he was a musician, he played the guitar. Rodney didn't think that was a fair comparison. Teyla was simply confused as to why he would dislike music, since she sang a lot. She actually had a very nice voice, too.

Finally, Rodney gave up on it all, and snuck into the rec room during the night shift. There was hardly anyone there, and no-one noticed as he sat down quietly on the piano stool and opened the lid. It had long since become commonplace for people to tinker on the piano, so no-one payed any attention as he pressed down a middle C with his thumb.

Nothing happened.

Rodney looked around awkwardly. There were two crewmen at a table in the far corner, and someone was curled up with a book in another. None of them had so much as stirred.

Well.

He turned back to the piano, and tried a chord. C major tonic triad.

It was loud. It hurt his ears, this sudden sound after so long trying to ignore it. The feel of the ivory – well, plastic – under his fingertips was so familiar and comforting it ached. How had he avoided this for so long? He was still terribly anxious about playing more. His avoidance of music had quickly grown into a fully-fledged hate during his teenage years.

Sighing, he closed his eyes, lifting his left hand and running up and down the keyboard with the ease of long practice. C major scale. No sharps, no flats. Any idiot could do it. One octave, then two, then four. Similar motion, contrary motion. Relative minor. Dominant major.

Rodney wasn't sure how long he had been playing scales for when the two crewmen got up and left, their voices rising in volume as they walked before cutting off abruptly as the door closed behind them. Glancing nervously after them, he huffed out one long breath, and looked at the instrument once more.

Well, no time like the present. He might as well play a piece.

Best to start with something simple. Say… '_Mary Had a Little Lamb'_? No, that was ridiculous. But simple it was. _Canon in D_, then.

Taking a deep breath, he played the theme. It was simple, and repetitive, and it continued for the whole piece. Very soothing. Gradually, he added more notes and embellishments, just as he always had, just as the music said. He had been able to play this in his sleep. He was still able to play it, even though he had tried to forget. He had thought he would be rusty. He supposed he would be, on a harder piece. But _Canon_ flowed from his fingertips as though he had never stopped, and he wondered why he had.


End file.
